December 13th.
Her hands were splayed against the console, her hair dishevelled, hanging in lank, sweat stained strands on either side of her face. She was going to come. Her knickers were round her ankles, her skirt pushed up and out of the way, her legs spread. The Doctor behind her, buried inside her, stabbing at her with short, angry strokes, his hand curved round her waist, fingers pressed tightly between her legs, manipulating her into orgasm. She had never needed to tell him exactly how to touch her, that was one of the many things she loved about him. He was going to make her come, hard. And soon. She bit her lip, deciding she wasn't going to cry out his name, tell him she loved him again, do any of the things she had done yesterday. Any of the things he had ignored.
But she needed just a little bit more force, she wanted him to give it to her just that little bit more roughly. She thought for a moment. 'Can we go to my mother's for Christmas?' she asked.
That was much better. The movement of his hand and his now even angrier thrusts were too much to bear and she couldn't fend off the sharpness of the climax that exploded within her, clamping her legs closer together to hold him within, shaking in controllable waves, a gasp wrung from her mouth. His determined panting grew deeper for a second, and she could feel him lose his orgasm inside her, with an indrawn breath that was still annoyingly restrained. He withdrew immediately, and she heard him fastening his trousers, marching loudly out of the room. She sighed, picked herself up, pulling up her underwear, rearranging her skirt. She fell back on the jumpseat, exhausted.
She thought back. An hour earlier, they were sitting together over the breakfast table. The Doctor was silent. 'Silent' and 'Doctor' didn't belong in the same sentence together so she found a random vein of conversation, and opened it.
'I like this tea,' she said, sipping. Their combined love of tea was practically the foundation their relationship was built on. 'What's it called?'
He reached over, took her cup, drank out of it and gave it back, pulling a face. 'Tastes like Earl Grey or something,' he replied, concentrating on his toast.
'Well, I like Earl Grey then,' she answered, drinking a bit more. 'It's very smooth, very subtle.'
He gave her a sharp look. 'Wouldn't have thought you would go for smooth. Or subtle for that matter. I'd have said you were a girl who liked her tea plain — just tea, and none of that fancy stuff.'
She shrugged. 'I like Earl Grey. It's more refined. What's that you're drinking?'
He took a gulp. 'Doesn't have a name. Doesn't need one. It knows what it is — honest, no nonsense, straightforward tea. Tea you can rely on. I thought it was your favourite.'
She met his level stare. 'Most of the time, it is,' she replied. 'But sometimes, just occasionally, I like Earl Grey. Earl Grey does things for me that other teas don't. Earl Grey's full of surprises, the sort of tea that takes you out to dinner and buys you flowers when you're not expecting it. You don't get that with ordinary tea. It expects you to like it without putting in the effort.'
He put his cup down with a clatter. 'At least ordinary tea doesn't make you any promises it can't keep. Ordinary tea doesn't ask you for anything in return, it just wants you to carry on drinking it.'
She sighed, returned her own cup to the saucer. 'But that's why I like Earl Grey sometimes. Because it's out of the ordinary. It doesn't hold anything back. You don't have to keep guessing what Earl Grey's thinking. Earl Grey's spontaneous — it tells you how it feels.'
He pushed his chair back. 'Then Earl Grey's a mummy's boy,' he answered and strode out of the room.
Half an hour later she found herself spread against the console, being shown in no uncertain terms how the Doctor felt, even if today, that was mostly angry. She knew he thought of her as his, and she knew he'd do anything to make her happy, but it wasn't enough. She had told him she loved him and he hadn't replied. He wouldn't talk about it, got annoyed with her when she tried to force him into it. She'd just have to let him get there in his own time.
She shouted after the noise of his retreating footsteps. 'That wasn't spontaneous. I heard you coming.'
He didn't dignify that with a response.
Read my books The Postman's Daughter and The Car Crash Bride by Sally Anne Palmer available now on Amazon.